


Untitled Depression

by superchester



Series: Indiana Blues [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, But still no Mary, Depressed Dean, Depression, Gen, Underage Drinking, he's 20, no monsters, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 17:00:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3257510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superchester/pseuds/superchester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's depressed but he doesn't put a name on it. He knows something's wrong with him, but honestly? He doesn't have time for the feelings shit. He's too busy working, raising Sam, and making sure Dad doesn't choke on his own vomit. </p><p>But fuck, he just needs a break sometimes, you know?</p><p>Like five minutes to feel sorry for himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled Depression

Every once and while it’s nice to just succumb to it. 

Like, he get’s sick of pretending, you know? Help Sam, help Dad, go to work, come home, help Sam, help Dad, no time for himself, no time to let go, no time no time no time.

He feels like he doesn’t even know himself anymore. Like who is he? 

He doesn’t even fucking know how to go down that line of thought. Can’t even ask himself the question without automatically calling himself a loser and an idiot.

Even now that he’s sitting in this stupid bar with his stupid fake ID ‘drinking’ away his problems he can’t even let himself feel like he has problems. It’s like his brain is literally broken. He tries to look inside, to let himself feel and there’s just. fucking. nothing.

And it really fucking hurts to realize that. He wants to drown in his misery but his brain is automatically switching on the ‘everything is fine, I’m fine’ switch he literally can’t.

He doesn’t even know what’s more depressing. His life or the fact that he feels nothing when he’s thinking about it.

His life just is.

Dad just drinks.

They just don’t have money.

Dean just goes through the motions.

Sam just hates him. 

And, fuck, that’s just the kicker, ain’t it? All of this, all of Dean, is for Sam.

He works and he works and he works, and all Sam can do is argue and complain and get angry, and you know what, Dean’s just really fucking tired, okay?

He just needs a break.

He’s 18 years old all he can think about is if he can get away with leaving Sam at home with dad tomorrow because he has to work an extra shift at Bobby’s because there’s no school to send Sam to.

He just hopes they don’t murder each other while he’s gone.  
So that’s why he’s sitting here, in this stupid bar on this stupid stool with his stupid fake ID and a fifth of whiskey that tastes like ass, trying to ‘take a break’.

Well, jokes on everyone, Dean isn’t even capable of taking a break.

The ice in his whiskey is melting and diluting his drink, and you know what? Dean doesn’t even care.

-

When he finally leaves the bar he’s drunk as a skunk and walking the five blocks it takes to get home in staggering, slow steps. If he gets stopped by cops, well, hopefully spending the night in a drunk tank will be less uncomfortable than facing Sammy when he’s two sheets to the wind.

He can’t take Sam’s judgy bitch faces right now.

The walk home seems somehow longer than the walk to the bar had been, it’s starting to feel really cold too, and Dean’s flannel over shirt isn’t doing much to help.

It’s April in Indiana, if he hadn’t been so scatterbrained when he’d left their rundown rental earlier that evening, he would have thought to bring a jacket.

As it is he can see his breath in front of him whenever he exhales. Dean shoves his hands deeper into his pockets and hunches his shoulders to preserve as much warmth as he can. 

Fuck, it’s cold.

It’s another two or so blocks to the house, but Dean’s legs are already wobbly and his toes are definitely going numb in his boots and threadbare socks. 

Does his life have to suck in every area or is today just special?

-

By the time he gets home he’s got the shakes, and, because he just catch a break, Sam is awake. 

Dean can tell his little brother has been sitting on the couch turned towards the door with his arms folded across his chest since Dean left. And Dean left   
ago. So the bitch fit he’s about to deal with is going to be strong.

“Aw, Sammy, you didn’t have to wait up.”

Sam doesn’t even dignify his attempt at humor with a response, just screws his face up tighter and hops off the couch to get in Dean’s face.

Oh boy.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, Dean. You smell like a fucking brewery. Don’t you care at all that alcoholism is what made Dad into what he is now? Now you’re acting just like him and what am I supposed to do, huh? Take care of both of you while you drink yourselves to death? Just, fuck- Dean I can’t-”

Sam loses steam fast, but the little he does get out before the tears swimming in his eyes pool over is enough to knock the breath out of Dean.

He feels prickly all over with self-loathing and guilt, and fuck, you know? This is why he can’t feel sorry for himself. Why he can’t take a break. Because this kid,   
kid, doesn’t need this shit weighing on him like it weighs on Dean.

So instead of pushing Sam away and hiding under his covers to get warm and lick his wounds, Dean sucks it up and pulls Sam into a hug, gripping his brother tightly to his shoulder.

“Alright,” he says into Sam’s overgrown hair, “Okay. I’m sorry.”

Sam’s skinny arms circle his back, and Dean feels wet eyes press against his neck, a hand clutching the back of his shirt. “Please don’t do it anymore. Don’t- don’t drink just, talk to me, or someone, anyone, just-”

Dean holds his brother tighter, “Okay, buddy.” Fuck.

“Promise me? Please?” 

Sam is sniffling against his shoulder and what the fuck else is he gonna say?

“I promise, Sammy.”

Sam is the thing, see?

Sam is why.

His poor, judgy, teenage, whiny, wonderful little brother. 

-

Eventually Sam goes to bed, and Dean checks on Dad, passed out in his room with a bottle of jack in his hand, Dean turns his dad onto his side and stays crouched by his bed for a moment. 

He rests a hand on his dad’s shoulder and sighs. He’s gotta fix this… somehow. Help Dad get better. For Sam’s sake at least. Kid’s 16, he shouldn’t have to worry about his dad dying from alcohol poisoning or liver disease or some shit.

He’ll ask Bobby for help tomorrow. 

Dean levers himself to his feet, whatever he had to drink has long since cleared from his head. He makes his way back to the room he shares with Sam, his brother already bundled up in his blankets on the opposite side of the room. Dean climbs into his own bed, kicking his shoes off and lying splayed out, flat on his back.

“Night Sammy,” he says, right before shutting his eyes.

He hears a mumbled, “Night Dean.” before he passes out.

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo, this may be a verse. Okay, it totally will be.


End file.
